Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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pressed a button. He had scarcely released his finger before the ground began to tremble; the skies without were no longer silent and shadowy; great flares of lightning, red bursts of flame, crash, roar and the hellish din of battle gained the world. Three days had passed since the engagement, and once more the Four-hundred-and-eighty-third Battalion of Royal Highlanders were enjoying a four days’ leave at the rest bil¬ lets. Captain Wallingsford was idly passing through the main thoroughfare on a casual tour of inspection, when an orderly bearing the ensigns of the Red Cross came to a halt before him. “A note, sir for Captain Wallingsford, Four-hundred-and- eighty-third Battalion, R| H.” The Britisher opened the sealed envelope and frowned as he scanned the contents: “Captain Wallingsford, “Four-hundrd-and-eighty-third Battalion, R. H.: “Dear Sir—We have in our midst a poor, unfortunate chap who has been for the last three days dangling on the brink of life and death. He was found in the newly captured Boche positions north of Cameron Way in the early hours of morning of the 28th instant last. He insists upon having an interview with you, sir, so hoping to receive a reply in person, I beg to remain, “Respectfully yours, “DR. J. L. WELCH, “Base Hospital, Rue des Rameaux, Paris.” Wallingsford took out his pen and thought a moment, then replaced it in his pocket. • Turning to the messenger he said: “I will be with you in a moment. Your orders are to direct me to Base Hospital No. 5, Rue des Rameaux, Paris.” An interval of five minutes or more passed before he re¬ turned to begin his journey. It had been drizzling and sleeting intermittently for the past two days, and the going was almost impossible. On the afternoon of the following day they reached their destination. The orderly brought Wallingsford to the head¬ quarters and reported to the commanding doctor. “I am Captain Wallingsford, of Four-hundred-and-eighty- third Royal Highlanders, sir,” the Britisher stated in a way of introduction. “You have, I believe, one of my men in your

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toothed bayonet, held in the hands of a cowardly Prussian, who stabbed him without mercy nor warning, from behind!” The poor Scot, trained though he was to the ever-present beckonings of the death and the suddenness with which it had often taken his comrades, his friends, and even his boyhood playmates, made a faltering step forward, his face turning a ghastly white and his eyes opened with with a dazed horror- stricken glare and he crumpled limply down upon a meager bench. “Gard, mon, ye can’t mean it!” he cried, frantically claw¬ ing his matted hair, while great tears streamed down his weathered face. “They dinna murder th’ poor laddie? Gard, Carptain, it can’t be so!” “Yes, Tam, they did it; but that’s not the worst they’ve ever done. Your brother was a grand man, sir, and every one was proud of him. He died a soldier’s death in protection of his home. He met his end while listening for any danger from a fiendish, barbaric foe who recognizes no law of man except his own. Hardly could we ask for more, sir.” In a moment Tam had dried his eyes on his coat sleeve, attained a stern, hard and almost expressionless appearance, and stood up at stiff attention. In every vein of that Scottie’s body there burned that unquenchable fire of his ancestors, and from his wet eyes shown a light steelly in its sharpness, pierc¬ ing in directness, and beneath it smouldered a meaning which ranged far beyond all power of conception. “I thank ye, sir,” he said simply, his lips scarcely moving. “An’ if tlia’ be all, I guess I’ll be goin’, sir.” They parted with a silent salute, and Tam O’Bain walked rapidly along the trench back to his “hole.” When the shadow of night had thrown its inky cloak over the muck land, and while the stars—far, far away and ghostlike in their glimmer—twinkled warmly in a mystery sky, there crept three lonely forms quickly over the rim of a parapet. Under the barbed wires they glided stealthily and silently, almost like shadows, then lay suddenly still. A star shell burst on high and illuminated the shell-gutted field; a few sharp re¬ ports and then all was once more held in the vast and mysteri¬ ous power of night. The clock in Captain Wallingsford’s quarters had just pointed its rusty hour-hand to one-fifteen A. M. when the officer stepped over to a switchboard at the other end of his table and

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wards who wishes to see me. I would like to be directed to him, sir.” They passed from the office into a large hall, where on every inch of floor space available stood army cots, beds, shake- downs and any kind of a contraption which might serve as a resting place for a wounded man. Some of the occupants of these cots were merrily talking and laughing, others were silently smoking or writing letters, and still others were groan¬ ing and screaming from the awful agony of their shell-rent and mutilated bodies. Finally they came to a cot at the end of the room where both men came to a silent stand. Beside the bed was a stack of Boche helmets and around each spike-top crown wound a hempen cord. This is the man, sir,” the doctor said, pointing toward the cot. Sergeant Tam O’Bain, of the Eighty-eighth Machine Gunners,” and then departed. Tam’s eyes were closed and he seemed peacefully sleeping, but as soon as the doctor had left lie opened them and smiled heartily at the Captain. Well, damme, boy—I mean Carptain, sir—I’m awfully glad tae see ye, sir,” he burst out in a cheerry voice, making a feeble attempt to salute with a bandaged stub where once had been his hand. I was a wee bit lonesome in this bloomin’ morgue, an’ I had a langin’ fer tae see ye, sir,” Captain Wallingsford looked down upon his friend with a pitying gaze, and then feigning seriousness, he said: Tam O’Bain, I would like to know how you came to be found in the German lines by our infantry, sir. I issued no such orders to ou or your company, and you stand in line for a court-martial as soon as your are well.” Tam looked up and smiled again. Well, sir, I don’ know quite how it came aboot, but ye re¬ member a tellin’ me aboot me brother bein’ killed? Well, when I went back tae me company th’ laddies cared tae know wot wuz wrong, an’ when I told ’em, sir, aboot the laddie brother o’ mine, they—well, we wint out on our own ‘across th’ way.’ ” Wallingsford noted that the Scot was very weak and that with each word his voice was becoming huskier. With a touch of tenderness in his tone he cautioned: Take your time, Tam, my lad; no hurry now at all. You’ve got all the time in the world.” The Scottie looked out a window a minute, and turning his